


let me show you

by ymorton



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-04-06 05:11:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4209201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ymorton/pseuds/ymorton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>au. harry is rich and sad, nick writes for a tabloid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	let me show you

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted on tumblr, sept. 2014
> 
> come say hiya [here](http://www.ihavea1dbloghelp.tumblr.com)

“Oh my  _god_ , I’ve got to go say hi to Binky,” Pixie says, gulping the rest of her third vodka-soda and squeezing Nick’s knee. “I’ll be right back, darling, don’t move a muscle." 

"Binky?” Nick says in wonder - posh people are  _unreal_  - and then adds quickly, grabbing at her arm, “Wait, no, don’t leave me alone-" 

"I’ll be right back!” she calls behind her, disappearing in a swish of pouffy cocktail dress, and Nick settles back into his seat at the now mostly-empty table, sullenly grabbing his drink. 

After he finishes his drink and checks Instagram, there’s nothing to do. He stares at his program - Autism Foundation 2014 Annual Charity Dinner, yes, very good, all well and good. He’s heard no real talk about the actual Foundation, though. Someone spoke for five minutes at the very beginning of the evening, and now everyone’s just been drinking and staggering around in very expensive shoes and hopefully writing massive checks of more money than Nick makes in six months freelancing. 

And now Nick’s been left alone. Fantastic. 

He hides a yawn in his palm, and startles when someone slides into the seat next to him, picks up the half-empty drink someone’s left and takes a sip. 

“You look bored,” he says, and Nick flushes red all down his neck because he knows this person. Well - not knows, exactly. Nick very rarely actually knows the people he writes about, except for Pixie, of course, and Henry now that he’s started getting a bit of press for his latest collection. 

But he knows that face, those dimples, those familiar green eyes glinting at him. Nick googled this person just last week, to find a picture for a column about his upcoming departure for uni in America. 

“Not bored,” he says, automatically, and Harry Styles - nineteen year old socialite and heir to a staggeringly large fortune in either oil or coal, Nick always forgets - smiles knowingly at him. 

“You know what I’ve found,” he drawls, finishing the drink in his hand. Nick tries not to stare. He’s pretty good around celebrities, but Harry Styles is different than most in two ways. Firstly, he’s well-known for fucking his way through a string of models, both male and female, the details of which keep Nick in a job and have - unfortunately - fueled too bloody many of his wank fantasies over the last year. 

And second, his sister died six months ago. 

Harry’s older sister. She was pretty and clever and bubbly and seemingly happy, until a bodyguard found her with her wrists cut in a bathtub in their massive immaculate London home. The bathroom was strewn with roses - her favorite flower - and there was a cross drawn in blood on the tile wall over the tub. Nick tells it to himself like a tabloid story because that’s how he’s seen it written, each lurid detail laid out like a soap opera. That’s how he wrote it himself, for Sugarscape. That’s his fucking  _job_. 

It’s all he can think of, looking at Harry now, and oh, shit, Harry said something, didn’t he? Nick’s mind just shorted out. 

Harry coughs, pointedly, raises an eyebrow. 

“Er, what’ve you found,” Nick says hastily, going red again. 

Harry leans in, like they’re telling secrets. “At a certain point, once you’ve gone to enough of these sorts of things, you can either turn on the bullshit perky act and pretend like you’re having the time of your life - or you can have an adventure. Y'know, make it interesting." 

"How do you make it interesting,” Nick says, intrigued. 

Harry smiles, reaches out and takes Nick’s drink out of his hand. Drains it. 

“Let me show you,” he says. His mouth is so very, very red. Nick is such a terrible person.  

Nick glances weakly over at where Pixie is laughing her arse off, draped over some woman in a sky blue floor-length gown. Binky, presumably. She’ll be  _fine_. Pixie’s grown up with these people, she don’t need Nick’s help. 

“I’m with my friend,” he says, as at least a token protest. “But. But I can just - meet her later. Or whatever." 

"Yeah,” Harry says, and he grins. “Or whatever." 

—

"Your name’s Nick,” Harry points out, as they make their way across the crowded room. 

“I - yeah. How’d you-" 

Harry taps Nick’s nametag, flicking his eyes up to Nick’s and biting his lip in a smile. 

"Ah,” Nick says. “Yeah. Nick Grlmshaw." 

"Harry Styles,” Harry says, shaking Nick’s hand, very mock-formal, laughing a little as he does. “Now let’s go." 

He drags Nick up to the bar, says to the bartender, "Hiiii, Andy." 

"Styles,” the bartender says, glancing cautiously over Harry’s shoulder, scanning the room. 

“The usual?” Harry says, slipping a few fifty quid notes across the table. Nick tries not to stare, but god, he’s barely ever seen those in real life. Which is sort of sad, when he thinks about it.

Andy sighs. “Mate-" 

"Andy, no one’s bloody watching,” Harry says, his voice suddenly sharp. “C'mon." 

Andy rolls his eyes, and grabs the money, sticks it into the pocket of his black trousers. Reaches under the counter, pulls out an unopened bottle of Ketel One and hands it around the side of the bar. 

"Most people go to a liquor store,” he says, irritatedly. “I could get sacked." 

"You’re not gonna get sacked, don’t be silly.” Harry puts the bottle behind his back, grabs Nick’s hand. “Thanks, love!" 

Andy waves them off, and Harry tugs Nick out of the ballroom, up a sweeping flight of stairs. Nick’s been up them already, because the toilets were up there, but then Harry turns left instead of right, starting down a long softly-lit hallway. 

"Where are we going?” Nick asks, not letting go of Harry’s hand. His heart’s pounding a little, with adrenaline, and Harry’s hand is very warm and large. Long fingers. Nick tries to stop thinking about it. 

“Shhh, someone could hear,” Harry whispers, very seriously, and then they’re ducking into a darkened alcove. Nick realizes that they’re elevators, two of them, facing each other. 

Harry pulls out a keycard, waves it in front of a scanner by the door, and the doors slide open.

“Posh,” Nick says, nervously, following Harry inside. “You going to kill me?" 

_Stupid_ , Nick. Insensitive. After his sister’s just died. 

Harry just laughs, distractedly, stabbing at the button for the top floor - twenty-two floors up. 

The elevator is fast, a smooth ride. Nick leans against one wall and Harry against the other. 

They stare at each other for a moment. 

"This is a bit mad,” Nick says. Harry’s face is different than in pictures - more fluid, softer. His eyes glitter in a way that can’t really be captured on camera. 

“Maybe  _I’m_  a bit mad,” Harry says, raising an eyebrow challengingly. “Would that bother you?" 

"Love mad people,” Nick says, unsteadily. “The only interesting kind, don’t you think?" 

Harry smiles like he’s said something right, and the doors purr open. 

It’s another hallway, not fancy this time - bare white walls and four or five utility closets. There’s a heavy dark door at the end of the hall, with another card-reader, and Harry waves the keycard again. It flashes green, clicks open, and he yanks the handle with one hand, holds the door for Nick. 

"After you,” he says, grinning, and Nick steps in. It’s a small stairwell. 

“Up,” Harry says, taking his hand again and starting up the steps. It’s only one flight, and then another locked door that Harry opens with the card, and then- 

“Whoa,” Nick breathes, stepping over the threshold. 

They’re on the roof. Gravel crunches under Nick’s feet as he walks forward, and the sky is huge and bright with stars above them. He can see the whole of London, spread out glimmering and luminous beneath and around them.

Harry’s crunching along behind him, and Nick startles when he feels something cold against his hand. 

It’s the bottle of vodka, uncapped. Harry’s wiping his mouth like he’s just taken a shot. 

“We haven’t got anything to chase with,” Nick says, taking the bottle anyway. 

Harry gives him a look like,  _so_? 

Nick shrugs, tips the bottle up to his mouth. It burns sharp down his throat, even though it’s the most expensive vodka Nick’s ever had. He usually just goes for Smirnoff, when he goes out. Not bloody made of money.

The aftertaste is clean and bracing. He smacks his lips, hands the bottle back to Harry. 

Harry takes a swig, not even flinching. Then another, like it’s water. He starts to raise it again, and Nick grabs it from him. 

“My turn,” Nick says, watching his face. “Haven’t you ever heard of puff puff pass, Styles?" 

Harry just jogs forward to the edge of the roof, puts his hands on the wall and stares out. 

Nick follows him, feeling a strange curl of fear - the image of Harry running towards the roof made him think, suddenly, of Harry jumping off. 

Harry wouldn’t, right? He wouldn’t. 

But then, no one thought Gemma would either. 

He leans against the wall next to Harry, stares out at the city. There’s something about a rooftop that makes him feel terribly posh, like he’s a character off Gossip Girl or something. Like he’s the people he writes about for his job, perched high above all the common riffraff of London. 

It’s intoxicating. Nick gulps the vodka again, feels it spread hot in his chest. 

"So,” he says, when Harry doesn’t move or speak. “You, uh, do this often? Drag people up to the roof and then ignore them?" 

Harry huffs a laugh, not turning to him. 

"I like being up here,” he says, more to himself than to Nick. “It’s, like. I feel small. You know? Like no one - I- I dunno. Like no one’s looking for me.”

Nick looks at him sidelong. Harry’s nose is red from the wind and the vodka, and his mouth is half-open, gulping in fresh air. 

“But I don’t like being alone,” Harry adds, scrubbing his wrist over his nose. His eyes are all watery from the wind; Nick’s are too. 

“I get that,” Nick breathes. He does, in a way. He quite hates being by himself, always makes a friend sleep in his bed or stay by his side while he writes. Needs the radio on at least, can’t stand the silence. 

He did always used to think - watching photos of Harry as he’s shuttled from nightclub to bar to party to fundraiser -  _Christ, he looks lonely as hell_. 

He just never thought he’d see it firsthand. 

“You’re Northern, aren’t you?” Harry says, turning to Nick, his eyes flashing again, like he’s just woken up from a little trance. He grins, dimples flashing. “Got the accent for it." 

"Oldham, yeah." 

Harry nods. "You know, I was actually born in Cheshire,” he says. “My mum was on holiday in the country when she went into labor. So. Technically. I’m also Northern. Northern-bred, London-raised." 

"Oh, you think that counts, do ya?” Nick says, snorting. 

“I fiiink so, mate,” Harry says, taking the vodka out of Nick’s hand. “Hey, you wanna go somewhere?" 

"We’re somewhere already, aren’t we?” Nick says, looking out at the city again. He’s getting used to this rooftop lifestyle. 

“Somewhere different,” Harry says, before he swigs the vodka again. “You’ll come with me, won’t you?" 

Nick knows the smart thing to do, in this situation. But what good’s it ever done him to be smart? Being smart would mean not working at Sugarscape, and going back to finish his Business degree, and not spending so much money on alcohol. 

"Yeah,” he says, before he can talk himself out of it. He yanks out his phone, sends a quick text to Pixie -  _mystery date if i don’t call you by tomorrow send a search crew x x x_ \- adds a few skull emojis and a sparkly heart, and then hits Send. When he looks up Harry’s still gazing out over the city, vodka clutched loosely in one hand. 

“Here, love, lemme take that,” Nick says, watching the bottle slip, and Harry pouts at him, takes a gulp, and then magics the cap up from somewhere, screws it on. 

“Let’s go,” he says, and takes off back across the roof, his gait decidedly unsteady now. Nick’s feeling quite unsteady himself by this point, so he doesn’t say anything. 

He just follows. 

The elevator ride leaves Nick feeling a bit sick, and he rubs at his temples as Harry shoves the bottle of vodka under his jacket and stumbles out the front door of the hotel. 

The street outside’s filled with shiny black cars, as is often the case at events like these, but Harry seems to know where he’s going when he knocks on the window of one of them, three cars down. 

It rolls down, and Harry leans inside, mumbling something to the driver. 

Then he turns back, and beckons Nick inside.

–

“Where’re we going?” Nick asks a few minutes later, amused. Harry doesn’t move from where he’s staring out the window, London a blur of light outside. 

He tips his forehead against the glass, exhales slowly, and Nick looks away, feeling oddly - intrusive. 

“Nowhere,” he says. “You’ll see. Adventure, right?" 

"Sure,” Nick says, looking out the other window. “Adventure." 

There’s a strained sort of silence, until the car pulls up to the curb five minutes later. 

"A half hour,” Harry says to the driver, voice flat, leaning forward and gripping the seat in front of him. “That’s alright, yeah?" 

"Of course, Mr. Styles." 

"Thank you." 

He nods to Nick, and slides out of the car. They’re on a street corner in a part of London Nick doesn’t know.

Harry starts walking, and Nick follows him, glancing around at the shadowy, quiet street. 

"Here,” Harry says, sounding drunk. His voice is thick. “Here, in here." 

He pulls at Nick’s hand again, and Nick stumbles up three cracked old stone steps and through a gate until he sees - 

A shudder runs down his back. 

They’re in a cemetery. 

Why the fuck are they in a cemetery? He’d expected Harry Styles to be kinky or sommat but not like  _this_.

Harry turns right on the cobblestone path, and Nick says, "Erm, where- uh, where are we?" 

"There are sixteen notable British authors buried here,” Harry says, like he’s giving a tour. “Including this one - this old lady from, like, the 1800s. Her books were dead boring. Religious shit, and ghosts. Like Dickens but less famous." 

"Alright,” Nick says, his heart racing. He doesn’t like cemeteries in the daytime, let alone when it’s past midnight. The place is overgrown, green and lush and mysterious, trees everywhere and moonlight filtering in. At least Harry seems to know where he’s going. 

Suddenly they turn off the path, into a row of gravestones, and Nick lets out a shaky breath. 

“She’s buried right here,” Harry says, stopping in front of a small, tilted, ancient-looking gravestone, the engraving worn away. “Died in 1887." 

"Did you, uh, really enjoy her writing, or sommat?” Nick asks, delicately, trying to ignore the creeping feeling down his back. They’re walking over dead bodies, right now. People disintegrating, dissolving into the earth under Nick’s feet. Eurgh.

Harry shakes his head, and then pulls Nick down a few more stones, picking their way through thick grass.  

“She was Gemma’s favorite,” he says, and then he nods at the grave they’re in front of. 

It’s newer, the stone large and a pure creamy-white marble. 

_Gemma Styles_ , the headstone says, and his heart jumps. 

Shit. 

“My father wanted her cremated,” Harry says, sounding robotic. He’s not holding Nick’s hand anymore. “But she said in the - in her note this is what she wanted. Right here." 

Nick doesn’t know what to say. 

Harry stares down at the headstone. There are fresh flowers laid gently across the grave - a thick bunch of roses, white and pink and dark plum. 

"She wrote it all out,” Harry says softly, nodding at the headstone. “ _Gemma Styles. Sister, Daughter, Friend. She Loved With All Her Heart_." 

He laughs sourly. "She bought the fucking  _grave_. Paid in cash so no one would know, had it all set up beforehand. Course she did, she was so - put-together." 

His voice trails off at the end, and he grabs the bottle of Ketel One where he’s left it in the grass, uncaps it and takes a swig. 

"I’m sorry,” Nick says, helplessly. 

Harry doesn’t look at him. 

“She promised me once, she’d come visit me at uni,” he says, and then he laughs again, a rough kind of sound. 

He tips the vodka, splashes it into the dirt in front of Gemma’s grave. 

“Fuck you, Gem,” he says, very softly, and raises the bottle to his mouth. 

Nick’s chest hurts. 

“Alright,” he says, unsteadily, when Harry doesn’t move, staring down into the wet earth, the tombstone, shoulders hunched. “Alright, love. Come away from that now." 

Harry takes a step backward and stumbles over a rock, staggers into Nick’s arms. Nick holds him steady, letting out a burst of breath. 

"Hey,” he says. Harry’s shaking, a little bit. “Hey, you’re alright." 

Harry turns to face him, slides his hands up Nick’s chest and then around his neck, peering at him in fascination. His eyes are dark and wide and drunk, and his cheeks are flushed, hair wind-blown. He stinks of booze, but Nick breathes him in anyway, feeling a twist of guilt down low in his belly where it already aches with grief. 

Harry hums soft in his throat, and reaches up to brush Nick’s drooping quiff out of his face. 

"You have nice eyes,” he says, quietly. 

“That’s a good line,” Nick breathes nervously. “Very charming, Harry Styles. Even for a graveyard." 

Harry smiles for a moment, and then drops it, his face going solemn and curious again. 

"Do you think you’re a good person?” he asks, and Nick tries to pull away just slightly. Harry holds him tight. 

“I like to think so,” Nick says, and then, considering it - “I think I am. Most of the time. No one can be all of the time, can they?" 

"I don’t know if I am,” Harry whispers, his eyes boring into Nick’s. “I’m not sure if I am." 

"You are,” Nick says, not sure himself, but feeling it strongly in his gut. 

Harry bites his bottom lip, and God, maybe Nick’s  _not_  a good person because he can’t drag his eyes away from it. 

“You thought she was a good person,” he says, vaguely. 

“What?” Nick mumbles, still staring at Harry’s full mouth. 

“My sister.” Harry unwinds his arms from Nick’s neck and Nick shivers. “You wrote about her like she was a good person. She always liked that." 

Nick’s stomach goes cold, and he takes a step back. For some reason he didn’t think - he’s low-level, alright, barely popular, and he never has any exclusives or breaking news. He didn’t think Harry would know what he did. 

Fuck, Harry knows who he is. Nick feels exposed, in a strange way. If Harry’s known who he is this whole time, what does he want?

"Even when she was in treatment,” Harry says, frowning, watching Nick. He crosses an arm over his chest. “You were nice to her. No one else was nice to her. Why are people so shit?" 

"Asked myself that many times,” Nick says faintly, a little shell-shocked from Harry apparently knowing his work, reading his work. Pixie ignores the gossip columns unless it’s important, and her agent is the one to tell her if it’s important. Nick can’t imagine that some throwaway articles wishing Gemma Styles good luck with rehab for a coke problem and an eating disorder would really classify as important in Harry’s book. 

Apparently so, though. 

“You think she’s - she was good?” Harry asks, quietly. 

“As good as anyone,” Nick says, maybe too honest, his voice cracking. “She was a human being." 

"She was my sister,” Harry bites out, eyes watery. He swipes his wrist over his face. 

There’s a taut silence. Nick really has no bloody clue what’s going on. 

“I just - she wasn’t - she wasn’t fucking perfect but she wasn’t bad,” Harry mumbles, leaning one palm against Nick’s shoulder to keep himself upright. 

“I know,” Nick says softly. “I know she wasn’t. I think it’s time for bed, Harry." 

"I’m fine,” Harry says, swaying. “I’m  _fine_. I don’t care. I - don’t. I’ll drink - whatever. However much I have to." 

"For what?” Nick asks, nervous of the answer. 

Harry just wipes a hand over his eyes again, keeps it there, rubbing his eye with his knuckles like a sleepy toddler.

“You can write whatever you want about me,” he says, voice thick. “Say I’m all fucked up, drink too much. You can - whatever. I - maybe I want people to know. People think I’m alright, m'not alright, I- I’m not-" 

He falters, and Nick puts an arm around his waist, keeps him steady. 

Harry’s probably past the point of comprehending, but Nick still feels compelled to say, "I’m not writing about you. Not going to. That’s not why I came along with you tonight, I promise." 

"You can,” Harry whispers. 

“I’m not going to." 

Harry looks at him, eyes unfocused. He’s still pretty like this, but it’s sad. 

Nick’s never seen him sad. In all the photos at Gemma’s funeral, Harry kept his sunglasses on. 

"I think I want to go home,” Harry whispers. 

Nick nods, reaches up to cup his flushed-hot cheek. He doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing, but his throat hurts. 

“I promise I’m not going to - to write a thing about this, alright? You’re alright. Everything’s alright." 

Harry just nods, quietly peels Nick’s hand off his face and then scrubs at his eyes again. They walk out of the graveyard slowly, Harry stumbling over a loose cobblestone and grabbing at Nick’s arm, his reflexes slowed by vodka. 

It’s weird. Nick feels close to him and yet very far away, and quite sad, and quite thinky, the way he gets more when he’s high than when he’s drunk. 

Harry stumbles against the side of the car when he tries to get in, so Nick opens the door, fumbles him inside, Harry falling with a  _whump_  of air into the backseat. 

Nick climbs in after him, praying Harry doesn’t pass out before he can say something to his driver. 

"Mr. Styles?” the driver says, turning around, and Harry raises his head to say something and instead chokes up a splash of vomit down his shirt. 

“Oh,  _fucking_ hell,” Nick says, panicky, and he goes into autopilot, shoves the car door open and puts Harry’s head outside it so he’s vomming in the gutter. It’s a classic stopped-in-a-cab-at-a-red-light move he’s used on many occasions in his younger, wilder days. Or, like, four months back. Whatever. He’s young.

Harry’s back heaves a couple times, bile splashing against the curb, and then he chokes, spits, and lifts his head very slowly. His limbs are weak and trembling where Nick’s holding him up. 

“Oh, you needed to get that out,” Nick says, clucking, rubbing his warm back, and the driver says, sounding faintly nervous, “Is he alright?" 

"He’ll be fine,” Nick says, letting Harry fall back against the seat, digging out a tissue to wipe Harry’s slack mouth. “He’ll need a new shirt and a bath and probably about ten gallons of water tomorrow, but he’ll be alright." 

"If he needs to go to the hospital, I- I’ll have to inform his father-" 

"No hospy, no hospy,” Nick assures him. “Trust me, I’ve taken care of people in worse shape than him. Get him to bed, keep him on his side, don’t let him drink water for four hours." 

Harry’s half-awake and looking miserable, and something fierce and protective warms in Nick’s chest. He finds himself tipping Harry’s slack head onto his shoulder, letting him rest against Nick. 

Like this, he’s pliant and easy to understand - just another too-drunk, wobbly kid who needs to sleep. Not Harry Styles, the mess of confusion and grief and anger who for some reason, took Nick along with him for the night.

Nick thinks about the graveyard and shudders, puts his chin into Harry’s hair and slips into an uneasy doze as they pull away from the curb. He doesn’t really know where they’re going, but the car’s moving, and Harry’s pressed up against him, and that’s enough for Nick to not ask questions.

The car stops after a while, and Nick lifts his head from atop Harry’s, blinking heavily. 

"Where are we?" 

"Your flat, Mr. Grimshaw,” the driver says, turning around in his seat. “Good night." 

Nick still has the warm weight of Harry draped on top of him, snuffling into his neck, smelling of sick and faded cologne. 

"I- oh,” he says, pulling Harry’s hand off his waist. How the hell did the driver get his address? Rich people magic? “Oh, er - will he be- alright on his own?" 

"He’ll be fine,” the driver says, eyeing him, face impassive. “He will be taken care of." 

Nick nods, pulling away, letting Harry fall back against the car seat, cupping the back of his head so it doesn’t hit hard. Harry’s entirely passed out, limbs loose. 

"Thank you very much,” he says, once Harry’s settled. “For all the - driving. And the ride home. And, er. Sorry about the vom, y'might need a good interior wash.”

The driver’s eyes soften just barely, and then he turns away, faces the front. 

“He told you a lot more than he tells most people,” he says. “I hope you realize that. He doesn’t trust a lot of people.”

Nick looks up from where he’s fumbling for his keys. 

“Oh,” he says, confusedly. Nick didn’t  _ask_  for Harry to tell him anything. “Oh, well. I mean. It’s fine. Won’t tell anyone.”

“I would hope so." 

Nick feels a bit like he’s being told off, but he’s too drunk to defend himself against any insinuations, so he just gives an awkward nod and shuts the door behind himself.

He taps the back of the car twice with the flat of his hand, only because he’s seen it in movies, and the car takes off. Nick stares after it for a moment, crossing an arm over his chest to ward off the chill, thinking about Harry passed out in the backseat.

_I don’t like being alone_ , he said. 

Nick chews his thumbnail for a minute, and then turns around to go inside.


End file.
